Fragment
by the Scribe1
Summary: Get the Snitch or die trying...."


Rated PG, deals with death

Author's Note: Hi, this is just a short depressing piece that popped into mind. It's more to kill writer's block than anything else, but if you've got some time to kill, and need a nice little angst fix, help yourself. It's rather elderly; Arabella at the Sugarquill beta read it something like a year ago, but it slipped through the canyon-sized cracks in my life.

Anyway, long overdue:

Fragment by the Scribe

The quill dropped from Ginny Weasley's fingers, but she didn't notice, not even when it landed on her ink well, the weighted tip knocking the little jar over and making a huge green stain on the oak finish of the common room table.

She wasn't alone. All around her Gryffindors stared disbelievingly at their head of House. But the slow rustle of panicked and anguished voices that picked up after a while made no impression on her. All she could do was stare at Professor McGonagall's tightly pressed lips and try to think of what word they could have formed that would look so much like "dead." Because she couldn't have said dead.

But she had.

Eventually the news sank in for the rest of the room. Hermione ran up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and started tearing through Harry's things, looking for the Marauder's Map to prove what Ginny knew must be the truth. That some kind of mistake had been made and Harry was safe and well somewhere in the castle, and it had all been some sort of trick against Lord Voldemort, who must have been planning something Harry didn't tell them about....

Even Hermione collapsed on Ron's shaking shoulder at last, though. When the Map was activated time and time and sixteen times again, and Harry's name still didn't appear on it.

It was inconceivable. That Ron should be crying and Hermione up now and angry and kicking random furniture in an odd reversal of their usual roles. That McGonagall's face should be so gray and the rest of the members of the Quidditch team were still in their mud-stained robes.

He wasn't gone. How could he be gone? Harry wasn't just magical, he WAS magic. He was everyone's dream, everyone's ideal, the best part of humanity and wizardkind walking around with an unassuming half smile and the weight of the world on his shoulders. If Harry were dead, Hogwarts wouldn't be standing. The stone walls would come crashing down and there would be no more witchcraft. All of the hippogriffs would take wing and fly off into space and Nearly Headless Nick would evaporate amongst oaths of displeasure. There was no normal life without Harry Potter. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't known his name.

She didn't believe it, even though a part of her had always known it would end too soon, with too many regrets. She had known it would end, but not like this. Not without a brilliant battle and lightning miracles and You-Know-Who going down with him. Not just because Oliver Wood once told him to get the Snitch or die trying and he had taken the advice too much to heart.

And she had always hoped that sometime before the end that she knew – she HAD known it was coming, she had - that sometime he would give her something of himself. If not his heart then his friendship, or his trust, or his left SHOE, or _something_ so she could get through the rest of her life without him.

But Harry Potter's famous, incredible, infallible luck had finally failed him, and instead of watching another of his painful sport injuries tonight, she had seen his death. She had WATCHED him die. One thousand young witches and wizards had seen the most promising member of their generation plummet to death before their eyes. And it hadn't even been for the Cup. It was madness.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Anyone could see that. She remembered the look on Dumbledore's face. He hadn't even looked concerned, really. They had all come to take it as a matter of course that Harry more often than not left the Quidditch pitch on a stretcher after games.

She didn't believe it.

A finger touched the side of her arm and broke through her thoughts –barely. She slowly turned her head to see... someone's face. She couldn't quite make out whose, though. Things seemed so distant.

"You're so calm." It was Colin. Her eyes focused after a minute and she could see that his cheeks were painted with wet streaks and, looking around, realized that there wasn't a single person in the room who wasn't either crying, or bearing the signs of having done so recently. No one but her.

She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn't think of a single thing. After a moment her lips started to get dry, so she licked them and closed her mouth.

Colin looked uncomfortable and, muttering something about seeing after Dennis, walked off a moment later.

She had known it would end, she thought, as she finally found legs to get up and head for her dormitory. She had KNOWN, she insisted, burying her face in her pillow, fighting to hold onto her denial as the truth rose like bile up her throat. She hadn't really thought that he would fall for her eventually, after he understood how much she truly loved him and had always loved him. It's not like every time she saw a pretty flower she considered how it would look with her wedding dress, and if lilies would bring a smile or tears to his eyes. It didn't mean anything that he was the father of all of her baby dolls when she was a child and that once in a while she would idly wonder if James would be a better name than Arthur for her firstborn son. She had REALIZED that heroes die young. She just hadn't expected to feel every good part of herself die with him.

END.

And that's all she wrote: my first and hopefully last foray into the complex world of angst. Henceforth I'll leave it to others more skilled in the genre, but if Bowie can have a disco album, I can depart from comedy, right?

Please post reviews or send them to .

Peace!


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